by N. Griffin
Hrmm, thought Smashie. “Well, I have to admit I do think it would help if you would at least wear an Investigator Suit, too, while we work on this case.”
“I don’t need an old suit,” said Dontel. “I keep what I need in my pockets.” This was true. Dontel’s pockets were always a treasure trove of things he found that might come in handy. Right now, his front pockets contained six pistachios, two springs that had sprung out of a ballpoint pen, and a tiny two-by-one-inch pocket dictionary. In his back pocket was his Investigation Notebook.
“What do you mean, an old suit?” Smashie cried. “I thought you understood about suits!”
“I do,” said Dontel. “I’m sorry, Smash. Let’s not fight. What we need to do,” he said, “is more investigating.”
“Yes,” said Smashie. “And find a way to apologize to Mr. Bloom.” She drooped under the weight of the paper and her troubles. No sooner had Smashie straightened things out with the yard lady than she had messed things up with another adult. And they were no closer to finding out who had taken the missing hair goop and why.
Overhead the sun disappeared behind the clouds. A rumble of thunder rolled across the play yard as the whistle blew.
The rumble of thunder turned to rain almost as soon as Room 11 came indoors, and Smashie and Dontel handed the heavy reams of paper to Ms. Early.
“Why, thank you!” Ms. Early was delighted. “You’ve saved me an errand.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dontel, but Smashie could tell he was still feeling as down as she was.
“Saved Ms. Early an errand,” whispered Smashie, “but now Mr. Bloom will never be our friend again.” She squirmed under the weight of her suit’s tool belt. “And forget about me humming around Ms. Early again. Once she finds out we accused Mr. Bloom, she’ll never let me sing!”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Dontel sadly. “And Mr. Bloom and I were going to talk about rockets next week. But I bet we won’t, now.”
“Come to the meeting area, please, children,” said Ms. Early the next morning. “It’s time for us to finalize our list of acts, because guess what! We’re going to start rehearsing with both classes tomorrow! I’ve reserved the auditorium after lunch for us to work on some of the musical numbers, and Miss Dismont will take everybody else into the gym to work with Smashie and Dontel on our interludes. Smashie and Dontel, have you and your grammy and dad finalized the dances?”
“Yes,” said Smashie, glad to have something positive to contribute for once. She was still wearing her Investigator Suit from yesterday. “For the most part. May I write them on the chart?”
“Certainly,” said Ms. Early, and handed Smashie a marker.
“We tried to match the dances to the acts as much as we could,” explained Dontel. “Just like Charlene is doing with our hair.”
“If we ever find our goop again,” said Joyce, touching her roller-skate ponytails. Clearly she was worried about how she would look after they had been washed out. Room 11 buzzed again as the children considered the implications of the missing goop.
“If I get my hands on that thief —” said Cyrus.
“Never mind that,” said someone else. “If there’s no goop, why bother doing the musicale at all?”
“Enough,” said Ms. Early, though Smashie could tell she was concerned as well. “Smashie, why don’t you print the names of the dances in the spots on the chart now?”
“All right,” said Smashie.
Smashie paused here.
“We haven’t decided on a dance for after my piece,” said Dontel. “The Jerk has the best arm motions to represent the movement of parts of the universe, but we promised Mrs. Armstrong we wouldn’t do that one.”
“We certainly did,” said Ms. Early, “and I’m afraid I’m holding us to it.”
“We’ll figure out another dance,” said Smashie.
Tatiana looked pleased but puzzled.
“Which dances match the acts besides the Skate with my song? Thank you for that, by the way.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dontel. “Well, we also thought the Mashed Potato matched John’s number —”
John groaned. “Don’t remind me. My neck!”
“Be strong,” said Cyrus. “You can do it.”
“My grammy looked up the lyrics,” said Smashie, “and the lady in the song talks about a lot of food she’s going to give the person who comes on over to her place. There was so much we figured she’d probably give the person mashed potatoes, too, John.”
“I can see that, actually,” said John. “Sorry. I guess I’m still pretty nervous.”
“We understand,” said Dontel.
“And the Swim seems like the way alphabetizing feels,” said Smashie.
There was a silence.
“What?” asked Room 11 as a body.
“Well, you know how it feels like you are swimming through all those letters and working so hard to keep everything straight?”
There was another silence.
“I guess I am the only one who feels that way,” said Smashie, crestfallen. “But it really is a fun dance.”
“It sounds like it,” said Siggie. “And it will be neat to see what Charlene can do with our hair for that one.”
“If we ever get our goop back,” said Joyce sadly.
“If we don’t get it back . . .” A voice trailed away. But Smashie and Dontel knew what that meant. Another member of Room 11 on the verge of dropping out of the musicale. They needed to find the goop thief, and fast, before more kids fell back to the same idea. Smashie’s heart began to pound with worry.
But she continued explaining the dances. “My grammy says the Temptation Walk will be good with ‘Endless Amour,’” she said.
“That is going to be a lot of hairstyles to do for eleven numbers,” Cyrus observed. “How can we do it with no goop?”
“There is plenty of time to worry about that,” said Ms. Early. “If worse comes to worst, I’m sure Charlene can style your hair in some other way, without it.”
But Smashie could tell that Ms. Early was worried.
“Well, no goop, no me,” said someone at the back of the room.
“Hey!” said Smashie. “Who said that? Aren’t we all in this together, even without interesting hair?”
“Yeah!” cried the part of Room 11 committed to the musicale for reasons not to do with hair. But enough voices remained silent that Ms. Early drew herself up. “The list of acts is marvelous. We will proceed as planned. Now, let’s get to our math.”
Ms. Early uncapped a dry-erase marker and began to write on the whiteboard. “I’d like all of you to think about what Siggie shared yesterday about using the numbers of tens in each hundred of a number in order to make a three-digit number using as many tens as possible.”
But Smashie’s mind was still too awhirl with their incomplete investigation to pay her usual close attention to math as Ms. Early handed the marker to Siggie and he wrote his thinking on the board.
Who would take the other jars of goop? And why? What are the chances of both the other jars having rolled away as well? No. It had to be a member of Room 11. And she and Dontel had to get back to work, investigating, before people started dropping out of the musicale like flies.
Dontel was clearly having a similar group of thoughts. “It’ll be an indoor lunch recess in the gym because of the rain,” he said. “We’ll sit somewhere away from the others and get back to the drawing board, investigation-wise.”
“And we better think of a way to make it up to Mr. Bloom as well,” said Smashie sadly.
“Yes,” said Dontel. “I am going to dedicate my astronomy speech to him.”
“That’s great!” said Smashie. “But that won’t be for another six days. I don’t want him to be upset with us for six more days!”
“And what if the other kids find out?” said Dontel. “Everybody will be awful mad.”
“Ugh,” said Smashie. It was true. “That would make three problems for us to solv
e.”
“Three?” asked Dontel. “Finding the goop and getting the kids to stay in the musicale — that’s two.” He looked at Smashie. “Oh, yes. And getting Ms. Early to let you sing.”
But Smashie’s shoulders drooped. She was already so embarrassed about her failures in this regard and all of her rumpled-up feelings about Ms. Early that she didn’t want to talk about her own problem again right now. “Besides,” she said, finishing her thought aloud, “we better unravel the goop one as soon as possible! The whole success of our Hair Extravaganza and Musicale is at stake!” And that was more important than her singing and feeling comfortable around Ms. Early.
Wasn’t it?
When they arrived at the gym for indoor recess, Miss Martone was there with her whistle, helping kids organize games. Smashie and Dontel headed to the other end of the gym, hoping to find a hidden corner to work in.
“It’s awfully loud in here,” said Dontel. “Not the best for thinking.”
“A good investigator works under even the worst circumstances,” said Smashie firmly. “Let’s sit next to the basketball bins. We can lean our backs against the wall. It’s a little more private that way.”
“Yes,” Dontel agreed. “And maybe the bins will dam up some of the noise.”
“I think we should think of other kinds of motives,” said Smashie as they settled into their spot. She prised her Investigation Notebook out of its tool-belt spot and opened up to the Motives List.
Dontel nodded. “Yep,” he said. “We better cross out the one about wanting to lengthen and mold hair. I mean, it turned out that’s why Mr. Bloom kept the jar, but not because he is a thief.”
Both of them turned bleak eyes toward the gym’s double doorways, where Mr. Bloom and his rock-star hair stood talking with the yard lady.
“But the second and third jars,” said Smashie. “There has to be a motive for taking those. It’s too much of a coincidence to think they rolled away, too, isn’t it?”
“I thought so at first,” said Dontel. “But maybe it isn’t.”
“But the jars were in class. We saw them. The jars would have to have taken magical leaps to get out of Room 11 unaided. Dontel! Maybe that’s it! Maybe the jars are turbocharged! You know about rockets — maybe Charlene’s mother is a secret rocket inventor and she is testing her ideas on the hair goop jars! Maybe —”
“Smashie,” said Dontel, “you’re getting carried away. I think it is probably more logical that someone took the jars.”
Smashie was deflated. Her idea was much more fun. But she had to admit that Dontel had a point. “Oh, fine,” she said. “Let’s write that down.”
“What are you guys doing?”
Smashie jumped. It was Joyce, Cyrus, Charlene, and Siggie.
“Oh, we’re . . . we’re just trying to think of a new dance to match my astronomy speech,” said Dontel. Smashie looked at him in surprise at the quickness of his excuse.
A red ball careered toward them from the other side of the room. It bounced off the wall right over Smashie’s and Dontel’s heads. Cyrus caught it on the rebound.
“Hey!” Smashie cried.
Carlos and several other kids from Room 12 ran toward them. “I’m sorry!” cried Carlos. “It was my fault! We’re playing keep-away and I passed in the wrong direction!” He caught sight of Charlene and gulped. She stared at him.
“Take a picture, you two — it’ll last longer,” muttered Cyrus.
“It’s okay, Carlos,” said Dontel. “Whew, though. You almost clocked us.”
“We’ll be real careful for the rest of the game,” promised Carlos.
“Indoor recess is never as much fun as playing outside,” said Charlene. “Let’s all go play keep-away.”
“Keep-away!” Smashie shuddered. All those balls pelting around and having to try to catch them. Bluck!
“Oh, come on, Smashie! It’s fun!” Charlene pleaded.
“Just you make sure you put those balls away after. You kids give me quite a time finding them when you forget.”
It was Mr. Bloom.
“Hi, Mr. Bloom!” cried the standing children. Smashie and Dontel looked down, ashamed. “We’ll tidy up! Promise!”
“Me and Smashie can do it,” said Dontel, looking up hopefully at Mr. Bloom. “We want to help, too.”
Mr. Bloom shook his head. “I suppose you two think I’ll lift a couple to take home,” he said sadly. “Thanks, kids, for cleaning up.” And he moved off toward the gym doors.
“What did he mean by that?” Siggie wondered aloud.
Smashie squirmed. “We . . . we kind of thought maybe he was responsible for the missing hair goop. On account of his hair looking so lush.”
Cyrus was indignant. “Did you accuse Mr. Bloom?” he squawked.
Dontel gulped. “Kind of.”
Smashie blushed. “A little bit. We did. But it turned out he just found it. It had rolled away. He used it, but he didn’t steal it.”
“I can’t believe you ever thought he did!” cried Cyrus. “Mr. Bloom is the nicest adult in this school!”
“Yes!” said Joyce. “How could you?”
“We didn’t mean —”
“We apologized —”
“So that is an Investigator Suit!” cried Charlene. “I thought so, but it was different from your Patches one so I didn’t say.”
Smashie looked down miserably at her satin jacket.
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
“You two better stop investigating right now and quit accusing nice people the whole time!” said Charlene.
“Yeah!” said Jacinda. “You should quit it right now!”
“Come on,” said Siggie. “Let’s forget these two and go play keep-away.”
“You two just sit here and think,” said Joyce. “Maybe you’ll come up with something else to make Mr. Bloom feel terrible about.”
“Better move out of the way, though,” said Charlene. “Who knows where our keep-away ball might end up again?”
And the children ran off with Carlos and his friends, Charlene looking back at them and scowling.
Smashie and Dontel hung their heads.
“This,” said Smashie, “is extremely terrible.”
“Yes,” said Dontel. “It is. But we can’t stop investigating. If Charlene weren’t so mad at us, she would say that, too! That goop is as essential to our musicale as it is to her mom’s new business! We need to find out who’s taking it and get it back.”
“And we can’t even apologize to Mr. Bloom again because he’s already gone,” said Smashie. “Not to mention all of Room 11 being upset with us for hurting his feelings.”
“It’s not everyone,” Dontel pointed out. “Just the four of them. And a few Room 12 kids.”
“It’ll be all of them by the time recess is over,” said Smashie. And she was right. Already, they could see Joyce and Charlene whispering to the other children playing keep-away. Everybody was stealing looks in Smashie and Dontel’s direction.
“Should we just give up the investigation like the kids said?” said Dontel.
Smashie looked at him, startled. Usually she was the one who wanted recklessly to give up, and Dontel was the one who steadied her through, but now she mustered herself to support her friend. “No,” she said. “There is wrongdoing afoot, Dontel! I keep telling you, investigators have to persist. Remember how bad it got in the Patches investigation? But we stuck with it anyway!”
It was true. The Patches investigation had had some truly trying moments.
“I do,” said Dontel. He drew himself up. “All right. Thanks for talking sense into me, Smash.”
“No problem.”
“And you’re right that something is afoot. . . . I just know something is up. I have this feeling. . . .” His voice trailed off. “But I don’t know why I have it,” he confessed.
“It will come to you,” Smashie reassured Dontel. “But we have to press on. Let’s get back to more motives.”
“Maybe
someone doesn’t like Charlene and wants her not to be able to do the hairstyles?”
“You mean, like they are maybe jealous of her talent? And the attention she’s getting?”
“Could be,” said Dontel. “Let’s put that down.”
“I don’t know who, though,” said Dontel. “Everybody loved Joyce’s hair heart and roller-skate wheels, and you loved your hairdo, too.”
“True. And everyone just seems excited to get one of those hairdos, not jealous that Charlene could do them. And it does seem like Joyce has forgiven Charlene for her bad haircut. They sat together at lunch,” Smashie said.
Across the room the red rubber balls were bouncing, and children were shouting and laughing. A few stole looks at Smashie and Dontel from time to time. Smashie’s neck felt hot.
Dontel sighed. “I guess the kids really are all fans of the goop. And Charlene.”
Across the gym, Jacinda ran like a gazelle, passing the ball to Cyrus.
“I am losing hope,” said Smashie. “I wish I had paid more attention to the jars when we saw them.”
“I did pay attention,” said Dontel absently. Across the room, Charlene passed the ball to Siggie. Carlos intercepted it but dropped it when he caught sight of Charlene.
“We win!” Charlene screamed.
“At least someone in our class is happy, even if just for now,” said Smashie. “Man. Between Mr. Bloom and my not getting my math done today —” She broke off. Dontel was not listening. His eyes were glued to the base of the basketball bin.
“What are you staring at?” asked Smashie.
“Smashie,” said Dontel in a strangled voice, “I have just found a clue!”
“A clue!” cried Smashie. Luckily her shout was drowned out by the din of the playing children.
“Yes,” said Dontel. And he reached behind one of the rear wheels of the basketball bin and brought out a jar. A familiar-looking jar.
“That’s not just a clue! That’s the stolen goods itself!” cried Smashie. “What? Who? How?”
